“We’d cert’nly of had a lot better time sizzin’ along in that little racer I got,” he said.  “I’d like to had you see how I handle that little car.  Girls over home, they say they like to go out with me just to watch the way I handle her; they say it ain’t so much just the ride, but more the way I handle that little car.  I dunno why it is, but that’s what they say.  That’s the way I do anything I make up my mind to tackle, though.  I don’t try to tackle everything—­there’s lots o’ things I wouldn’t take enough interest in ’em, as it were—­but just lemme make up my mind once, and it’s all off; I dunno why it is.  There was a brakeman on the train got kind of fresh:  he didn’t know who I was.  Well, I just put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him down in his seat like this”—­he set his hand upon Miss Pratt’s shoulder.  “I didn’t want to hit him, because there was women and chuldren in the car, so I just shoved my face up close to him, like this.  ’I guess you don’t know how much stock my father’s got in this road,’ I says.  Did he wilt?  Well, you ought of seen that brakeman when I got through tellin’ him who I was!”

“Nassy ole brateman!” said Miss Pratt, with unfailing sympathy.

Mr. Crooper’s fat hand, as if unconsciously, gave Miss Pratt’s delicate shoulder a little pat in reluctant withdrawal.  “Well, that’s the way with me,” he said.  “Much as I been around this world, nobody ever tried to put anything over on me and got away with it.  They always come out the little end o’ the horn; I dunno why it is.  Say, that’s a mighty smooth locket you got on the end o’ that chain, there.”  And again stretching forth his hand, in a proprietor-like way, he began to examine the locket.

Three hot hearts, just behind, pulsated hatred toward him; for Johnnie Watson had perceived his error, and his sentiments were now linked to those of Joe Bullitt and William.  The unhappiness of these three helpless spectators was the more poignant because not only were they witnesses of the impression of greatness which George Crooper was obviously producing upon Miss Pratt, but they were unable to prevent themselves from being likewise impressed.

They were not analytical; they dumbly accepted George at his own rating, not even being able to charge him with lack of modesty.  Did he not always accompany his testimonials to himself with his deprecating falsetto laugh and “I dunno why it is,” an official disclaimer of merit, “as it were”?  Here was a formidable candidate, indeed—­a traveler, a man of the world, with brains better and quicker than other people’s brains; an athlete, yet knightly—­he would not destroy even a brakeman in the presence of women and children—­and, finally, most enviable and deadly, the owner and operator of a “little racer”!  All this glitter was not far short of overpowering; and yet, though accepting it as fact, the woeful three shared the inconsistent belief that in spite of everything George was nothing but a big, fat lummox.  For thus they even rather loudly whispered of him—­almost as if hopeful that Miss Pratt, and mayhap George himself, might overhear.